


Dancing

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Bachelorette Party, always a girl Rodney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:21:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's not a saint. He knows he talks too much, enjoys it when conversation turns crass because he's never met someone who likes blow jobs as much as Mer, and he likes to brag about just how much fantastic sex he's getting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing

"Really?" Ford says, looking doubtful. "C'mon, Shep, I know you've always had a thing for smart types but—"

On his other side, Dex snorts out a laugh. "That's not just smart, it's _ball-busting_. She ever stop yelling?" He squints at her, shouting in the face of a taller man, so red that she looks dangerously combustible, then turns and pins John with a sharp look. "Does that turn you on?" he asks, earnestly.

Killing Ronon Dex is no easy feat, John reminds himself. "No. It doesn't turn me on."

He's completely lying.

Their drinks are at varying levels across the sticky table and John focuses on measuring out each amber layer, comparing volume, potential taste. Ronon always likes dark brews you can practically chew, and Aiden's still a lightweight and sticks to Coors. Heathen. John never lets Aiden buy him beer.

"Sheppard."

She's dancing. John doesn't have to look up and see to know that tone of Ronon's voice: rumbling and dark, promising retribution like a tidal wave, startlingly and overwhelmingly complete. He looks feral even in a bar that has seen its fair share of individuals who know how to kill, sitting reclined and genteel against dark wood paneling.

Ronon calls himself a Mountain Man because he likes it, the feral, untamed rawness of it. He doesn't do much work in the mountains.

"John," he says again.

"Is the guy kinda short? Built pretty solid?"

Music swirls around them, just loud enough to be heard over the cheerful chattering. There are streamers on the walls and John sulks when he looks at them, dripping silver and blue with cheerful abandon that looks completely out of place.

"Yeah," Aiden answers, figuring it out a beat too late. "Man, Shep, he's got his hands low down on her back."

Low isn't exactly _too_ low and since John can see Mitchell cozied up some dark haired woman, he starts to laugh. Just a chuckle that grows and grows as he asks, "Glasses?" and they say no and, really, he's glad that the guy could show. He knows it's important to her. But oh, _man_ , the expression on his friends’ faces!

Ronon leans forward abruptly, directly over John's shoulder. "Huh," he says. "Missed that. Sorry."

"Missed what?"

"Apparently, he missed that she's dancing with my brother in law." John hates saying 'future'. Tomorrow is pretty irrelevant to both of them, since what matters is already settled. Their friends’ idea of propriety is different, though. 

"Oh. Uh, sorry. It's just they're dancing kind of close and that's her brother, really?” Aiden slumps back against his seat. "This is the weirdest bachelor party I've ever been to."

"It’s Sheppard. No normality there."

"There should be strippers!” Ford whines, staring moodily at his drink. “At least there should be no _girls_.”

John's pretty sure it's inclusion of girls that Aiden's most discomfited by, but he can’t answer since his chair is roughly yanked away from the table and something familiar that smells like cigarette smoke—and oh, _that’s_ a conversation—plunks into his lap.

“I completely agree!” Mer answers for him. “There should be strippers, or at least scantily clad women serving the food and booze. There should also be separate parties so that _I_ can have strippers, as well.” She dismisses Aiden, who’s mouth is opening and closing like a fish, to glare at the associated table. “If it’s a bachelor party, then there should be strippers. They like to pop out of cake, I understand."

These are a few of her favorite things, but John still says, "Mer, I don't want that kind of party."

"Yes, yes, dear," she says and pats his shoulder. She pins her gaze to Ronon, who leans back in his chair as if to say do your worst. Why the hell did he like these guys again? "I bet if you carried him to a strip club he wouldn't be able to fight you off," she speculates. "Would you do that? Every bachelor needs one last hurrah of some sort."

"Actually, he already—” Aiden says because sometimes he doesn’t know when to keep his _fucking mouth shut_ “—ow, Shep, man! That hurt!"

Fortunately, Mer either doesn’t care about the byplay—which is possible—or she’s too caught up in staring challengingly at Ronon. It’s probably the latter. She’s met Ronon a few times before, but all the meetings had been brief and superficial. Now she’s staring, they both are really, expressions considering and careful. Neither moves but John still gets the sense that they're circling each other, measuring strengths and weaknesses the way a prize fighter might.

Ronon breaking first is a surprise. “Don’t think he’d like that. Leaving.”

"Of course he wouldn’t, which isn’t at all the point. It’s traditional to have a night of boys and booze and strippers and you’re my most likely method of achieving those things."

She thinks she’s trying to be nice to him, probably, and John should intervene, really, but Ronon just leans forward and says, “Not the point."

And suddenly that’s that.

Mer relaxes, disgruntled but accepting what John’s told her a thousand times already. He doesn’t _want_ a bunch of guys he works with, invited by well-meaning conspirators but not exactly his best buddies, crowded into a tiny, smoke filled room that reeks of bad booze and too much humanity. He doesn’t want the conversations about women, theirs, his, doesn’t matter, while a woman who could’ve been a _doll_ for all the respect and attention she received weaved in and out of the group before she would finally push John down and grind on his lap in a way that was not at all sexy or appealing.

There’s nothing intimate or reassuring about a ‘last hurrah’ when John doesn’t feel like this is his last anything. He’s been married before, as Aiden so stupidly brought up. This party, here, is the most he’ll stand for because it’s got nothing to do with crass sex or broken promises.

It’s about them, their friends and, fortunately, they’re family. That’s more important.

John's not a saint. He knows he talks too much, enjoys it when conversation turns crass because he's never met someone who likes blow jobs as much as Mer, and he likes to brag about just how much fantastic sex he's getting.

But he'll do that—he's done that—other times. Not _now_.

"You're such a strange man," Mer says. She's looking at him, studying his face and as she does, the world falls away. There's no more music thumping in the background, no more chattering, laughing voices that rise and fall like an ocean's tide. There's just Meredith, her hair brushing against his cheeks, mouth tasting like beer and promises, an endless blue expanse that will keep him up in the air forever.

"Hey," he says into her mouth. "Hi."

"Hi," she says back and kisses him again.

Beyond the halo of her head, John vaguely hears someone set up a cheer, comments about honeymoons creating more laughter. He ignores it by putting an arm around Meredith's neck, blocking out the light, and holding her even closer. "Hey," he says into her mouth. "Having fun?"

"Jean came."

"And that means... ?"

She smiles at him the way statues do, fleeting and wise and full of things he can't yet unpack even if he knows which containers still need to be filled. Meredith is a mystery he already has the key to. "That means yes. Yes. I'm having fun."

"Good," he says, content, and, just a little husky, "you taste like beer."

It's hard to laugh and kiss at the same time, but they manage it.


End file.
